The Unnatural Chaos
by Rabbit Pie
Summary: Now the abode of my growing collection of HPSPN fic beginnings and one-shots.
1. The Unnatural Chaos

**SPOILERS FOR END OF SEASON 6 (and DH, too)**

The Unnatural Chaos

This probably won't go anywhere. If it goes somewhere, a new chapter will be added. If it doesn't, expect my next SPN bunny to be imprisoned here. If that's the way of things, adopt a bunny if you wish, but don't use my wording and please give me a link so that I can check out your story!

I have not seen season 7: do not spoil me with comments!

Unbeataed.

I have re-written the next bit of OOOK at least three times. I haven't abandoned it yet.

x.x

The sun rose, throwing a beam of light between the bedroom curtains. It crossed the floor, a long, gold thread cut into many equal lengths of ten centimetres, cut where it couldn't penetrate the darkness between the floorboards. It jumped up the skirting board and left a ruler of peach-coloured light on the wall.

In the bed, Harry Potter was stirring. His first word of the day was a meaningful _blagh_ and he threw his arm across his eyes in denial of all sunbeams, no matter how poetically pretty. He eased his arm off his face and blinked towards the curtains, which glowed orange as the sun shone through them.

"Mornin,'" he muttered, and pulled back the covers. He shivered. The muggle and wizard forecasts foretold a sunny day, but it was just as reluctant to wake as Harry. And unlike Harry, it didn't appear to have a superior to keep it in check.

One toe, wrapped in a fluffy sock, touched the ground and in that instant Harry felt as though all the heat in his body had been drained out though his extremity. Galvanised into action, he sped across the room, down the hall, and into the shower. He gave the hot water a full two turns.

On any other Tuesday morning, Harry would next have ran a towel through his hair, dashed back to his bedroom to find his clothes waiting for him and the delicious smells of Kreacher's cooking wafting from the kitchen. Kreacher would skulk around nervously, Harry would tell him he didn't have to hide, and then Kreacher would disappear back to Grimmauld Place.

That's what would have happened if the floo didn't chime, and Hermione's voice didn't ring through the house.

Cursing, Harry jumped out the shower and slipped, colliding with the door and grabbing the towel rack. His hand closed around the towel and he pulled it towards him. His back slammed into the sink and he toppled to the floor, towel in one hand and the towel rack empty.

"Bugger," Harry groaned.

"Harry!" Hermione yelled, her voice becoming louder. Harry could hear her footsteps thundering down the corridor and he whimpered. He reached for the side of the sink and pulled himself up. He did not want to Hermione to walk in on him like this.

Harry slung the towel around his hips just as the door opened.

Hermione stared at him, wide-eyed. She took him in. Harry couldn't keep the pained grimace off his face and he knew she could see it, but she just shook her head in exasperation.

"Sheesh, Harry!" Hermione said incredulously, "I don't know if safe to let you live on your own."

"I'm fine," Harry answered, and stepped up to her, pointing down the corridor. "How 'bout you let me get dressed?"

Hermione placed her hands on her hips and scowled at him. She looked as determined as a mother about to inflict some routine necessity upon her child, and for a long moment Harry though she wasn't going to let him get dressed at all. "Fine," she said eventually. "But I need to speak to you, now."

"But I've got to go to work!" Harry protested.

Hermione ground her teeth behind her lips, and Harry could imagine the gritty sound of teeth grating together. "This is much more important that your work."

Hermione closed the door, letting him stand awkward. Harry sighed out low and long, and whipped the towel through his hair. It caught awkwardly around his neck. He ran his comb through his hair only twice and winced as the teeth scraped against his scalp. He gave his razor a single, suspicious look and left the bathroom.

The smell of tomatoes led him to the kitchen. Hermione was sitting at one of the three chairs that sat about the dining table, her hands clasped on the tabletop in front of her. Her thumbs rubbed insistently together, and she frowned at the stove, where Kreacher was stirring soup from where he stood on the counter.

Her head whipped around when Harry walked in.

"You know I wouldn't ask if this wasn't important," she started, "but I really need your fame to back me up on this one."

Harry slouched down across from her and glared across the table. Hermione grimaced and her thumbs rubbed harder together. Harry glanced at them, but his glare did not abate.

Hermione opened her mouth. For several moments, it seemed she was looking for something to say. She swallowed, waited a few more moments, and tried again.

"The shopping alleys, including Diagon, and Platform 9 ¾ have been closed."

Shock. The message permeated Harry's brain like a live wire. "Wh—at!" he cried, standing up and flinging his chair back. Kreacher flicked a finger at it, and it stopped just short of punching hole in the wall. "Do—do you need me to convince them to reopen them or something? That—can't do that!"

"Harry," Hermione said in monotone, "I need you to back them up."

"Are you crazy?" Harry said in disbelief.

"Otherwise," Hermione's voice rose, the pitch of it startling, "We will lose our magic! For Merlin's sake, we might lose it anyway! This is just a damn stopgap." The last words where the quietest.

Harry stagged back. His knees hit the chair and he fell into it. "Okay. Okay, but how do you know this, are you an Unspeakable or something?"

Hermione coloured.

"You are," Harry said flatly. His mind was swirling like all the letters in the Daily Prophet had jumped astride broomsticks and were performing continuous Wronski Feints in infinite directions at infinite heights and his mind was the world's largest quidditch pitch. The words barely made it through the swarm.

"I knew you weren't _really_ training under Madame Pince," Harry mumbled.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure. Are you going to help me?"

"Only if you tell me what's going on," Harry said. Control was coming back to him, and he said the words firmly. He crossed his arms and felt his lips firm into a straight line.

Hermione sighed. "Fine. You know how when people die, they go through they veil?"

Harry nodded.

"They go somewhere," Hermione answered. "We've only just discovered it in the last fifty years. The veil is the origin of our powers. The spirits go somewhere, and then somehow we… feed off their power or something. All witches and wizards have the power to absorb the veil's power—it's what makes us who we are."

Harry nodded cautiously. Tears that wouldn't be shed built under his eyelids. They were old tears of Sirius. Somehow, this was kind of nice. Knowing that somewhere, Sirius and Lily and James were giving him strength, giving all witches and wizards the gift of magic. What better thing to do with death?

"But the whispers have stopped," Hermione continued. "We think… we think the veil's blocked, and until we can open it we need to use as little magic as possible. I mean it, Hogwarts is _dying_, Harry!"

"Right." Harry croaked. "Hey. How about we… we go ask them? I could get my mum and dad, or Sirius or Remus to tell us what's wrong."

Hermione's jaw dropped. "Harry!" she sounded scandalised, "you still have the Resurrection Stone?"

Harry shook his head emphatically. "No. No I don't, but Kreacher should be able to get it. He's mine, and the resurrection stone was once mine, and it's powerful, so maybe he could…"

"I won't, Master Harry," Kreacher answered. His head was tilted back, and he stood up on the kitchen bench beside his bubbling soup like a proud stone gargoyle.

Harry blinked. "You _won't_?"

"Correct, Master Harry," Kreacher said shortly. "Bad magic in that stone. It touches things that should not be touched!"

"But Kreacher," Hermione protested, turning around in her chair and trying to show the house elf respect, "Don't you see? We need this. Can't you feel the loss too, Kreacher?"

Kreacher looked towards Hermioine. It struck Harry as the first time he'd seen him do it, so far as he could remember. His eyes were glistening. Kreacher slowly drooped. His ears sagged, his back bowed, and he slowly shifted back to the soup, stirring around and around.

"Kreacher feels," he whispered, his voice as watery as his eyes. Harry watched the bubble of snot oozing from Kreacher's nostril with something akin to horror. "Kreacher does not like this magic, bad magic!" He flung his head up, and took a deep sniff. The snot disappeared inside his long nose. "Kreacher does not like this magic, but the Mudblood speaks such sense." With that, he disappeared, leaving the soup bubbling on the stove.

"Well," Hermione said sadly, "that answers that then. We didn't know if it affected magical creatures yet."

Harry was slurping soup from a bowl when Kreacher reappeared, startling him into splashing it all over his face. The hot liquid struck his skin and he rubbed it away with his arm. "Aww, Kreacher!" he admonished.

Kreacher reached up to the table, the tiny jewel resting between his gnarled fingertips. He set it gently on the tabletop and then backed away like wary dog. "Use it little, Master," He instructed.

"I will," Harry answered, and picked it up carefully. It was many-faceted, like a diamond, but dull and it didn't sparkled. He turned it over and over in his hands, his thoughts filled with his parents, with Sirius, and with Remus and Tonks and so many others who'd gone slipped past the veil.

"It's not working," Kreacher told them.

"What do you mean, Kreacher?" Hermione asked.

"Kreacher _feels_," Kreacher insisted. "It pulls, but nothing comes!"

"Do you mean it's blocked?" Harry asked.

Kreacher shuffled and shrugged. "Kreacher feels the pull, but if there is an answer, Kreacher cannot tell."

"Harry," Hermione interrupted. "Try Abby Walls. She was my colleague; she wanted to know so bad… she just walked through." Her stared into her soup, and she clenched the hot bowl tightly.

Abby Walls appeared before them the third time Harry turned the stone. She was young, only a few years older than Harry and Hermione, With a scarf to keep her hair back and eyes that were haunted.

"Hermione!" she cried. "It's worse than we feared. This whole place, it's empty. There's only a few hundred of us, and we only died in the last day!" She ran forward, her insubstantial fingers clawing at Hermione.

"Mione! Mione!" she sobbed. "You've got to save us! We're doomed!"

"Hey!" Harry said, waving his hand at her. She looked up at him, and though her eyes were coloured a deep brown, he could see through her like she wasn't there at all. She was eerie, more than a ghost but less than a human. "You said witches and wizards. My professor, Remus Lupin, he was a wizard but he was a werewolf too, is he gone?"

The woman shook her head. "There's _nothing_ Mr. Potter. They're all gone."

"Abby, listen to me," Hermione tapped the table sharply and stared at the woman who had once worked and laughed and had cups of tea beside her, "Is there anything you can tell us?"

Abby shook and swallowed, still looking at Harry. She looked peered at him dismally out of puffy eyes. "Yes," she whispered.

Hermione and Harry nodded eagerly.

"Yes," Abby whispered. "There was – something. It came in the shape of a man. Daniel, the one who died first, saw Him leave. So powerful, maybe even Merlin couldn't be so strong. Strong enough to wrestle a Nundu he says! That power… I'm sure He took them – everyone who is gone!"

Hermione nodded, but her eyes were wide and fearful. "Okay." She licked her lips. "Anything, can you tell us a name?"

Abby sobbed and shook her head violently, her curly hair waving around behind her. "We know the name. We all do. We want to forget! It's like – it's like V-Vol-Voldemort. But He is greater and more terrible than that man could be!"

She wiped her eyes.

"The name?" Harry pushed.

Abby whined, the high pitch of it reaching skyward, grating on the heart as it climbed until it felt like needles against the skin and the spirit. The cry held its apex and trembled. Abby trembled with it, her body shaking until it could no longer sustain the sound and she collapsed.

It was silent. In that silence, the single word was clear.

"Castiel."

Her piece said, Abby faded behind the veil. Kreacher came forward and stood where she lay, and smiled.

"Kreacher feels it," he announced. "Kreacher's power is healed by the lady's echo."

"Kreacher!" Harry said suddenly. He leaned down to the House Elf. "Kreacher, the power, is anywhere on earth?"

Kreacher scowled thoughtfully. He hummed and clicked his fingers. An ancient globe appeared before them, a full meter in diameter. The coastlines were bloated and vague. There were landmasses were there were none, and open water where islands clustered. Kreacher pointed.

Harry disappeared with the powerful crack of apparition.

"Harry!" Hermione cried, jumping to her feet though it was far too late to stop her friend. She coughed. Panic iced her. "K-Kreacher?" she said, desperately turning to the House-Elf.

Kreacher looked at Harry's seat. "Master is healthy," he said softly. "The power the Lady Echo gave is spent. Kreacher and the Mudblood still have the Lady Echo in them."

He turned baleful eyes up at Hermione.

"The Mudblood and Kreacher must go to help Master."


	2. Evidence

**Evidence**

This is not a continuation of the last chapter, I'm sorry to say, but rather another plunny.

x.x

The summer storm was easing off and the thunderous pounding of rain on rooftops had dwindled to a light pitter-patter. The roads were slick, gleaming like snail-slime in the shadow of the dreary grey clouds. The trees that lined the road were a bright and verdant green, their leaves cluttering the pavements and drains.

Three figures hurried along under large, grey raincoats. They huddled together: a group united by an urgent purpose. The creamy building they walked along side towered above them, its drainpipes singing with the sounds water flowing.

"I don't see," Ginny muttered, when they finally reached the stone veranda that offered them shelter from the rain, "why we couldn't just put water-repelling charms on our clothes. There aren't any muggles about in this weather anyway."

Hermione shot a small frown at her friend. It was easy for her, being muggle-raised, to forget how strange it was to do simple things like wearing raincoats. They had apparently all but disappeared from wizarding culture.

"We've passed five muggles already on the way here, and there's no knowing what they'll think. At the very least, the Ministry will have a problem with it," Hermione told her companions as she collected up their raincoats and stuffed them in her bag. "Now come on!"

Hermioine ushered them into the library, her steps bouncing slightly in her excitement. Even Ron was smiling, looking around hopefully.

"You really think the muggles'll know something?"

"It's a possibility, and it's one we can't let slip by," Ginny said before her friend could respond.

"We haven't checked, and we're not going to leave any stone unturned," Hermione answered. She caught something out of the corner of her eye and sighed.

"Harry!" she called as the lights flickered dangerously. A few people looked up and stared at them with frowning faces. She lowered her voice and hissed, "Don't poke the light switches!"

"Right. Sorry," Harry muttered, backing away from the light switch and into the machine that checks for stolen books, which began to beep indignantly.

"Sorry!" he cried, and rushed back to the group, his insubstantial body passing through a trolley of books. Ginny let out a low chuckle, and soon they were all roaring with laughter.

"Harry," Ginny croaked, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Just 'cause you're a ghost doesn't mean that you can't affect things," she meant it as an admonishment, it was true, but the statement lifted the spirits of the group. Harry grinned.

"Everyone's staring at you guys. I'd think you were crazy to, hearing you speak to an invisible person like that."

It took a moment for Ginny and Ron to process what was said, before they shook their heads in amusement.

It was incredible, Harry reflected. He'd thought, when he parted ways with Dumbledore, that he would be going back to his own body. Dumbledore was wrong though, and now he wasn't quite sure if he was truly alive or dead. It was quite a shock to sit up after he'd assured Nassisa that Draco was alive, only to find his body hadn't come with him.

He wasn't like other ghosts. To wizards, he appeared solid and coloured. He was only a year dead and he could already influence the living world so long as there was a speck of magic in the air. He could even, in magically saturated areas, perform weak spells. His friends no longer mourned his almost-but-not-quite passing and they'd come to accept him as the odd, semi-present presence he was in their lives.

The four of them chose a table on its own, surrounded by aisles of books. Harry sat at the desk while the others went to find books. The cushioning charm on the chair provided enough magical presence for him to turn the pages of the books they dumped next to him.

They chose a range, everything from _Extreme Hauntings_ to _Stigmata and Modern Science_. Ginny had given the last book a very weird glance, but Hermione and shrugged and said that they never knew, and that no-one could doubt that Harry had spontaneously generated the two odd, tear-like wounds that rand down his back from his shoulder blades after his death, even while the rest of his scars had disappeared.

For half an hour, only the sounds of page-flipping could be heard. Then, gradually, they ceased. Ron looked up from his book to find his sister, friend and girlfriend staring at him.

"What?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Ginny smirked, looking back down at her book.

Ron gave a disbelieving sound halfway between a scoff and laugh. "I'm allowed to be studious sometimes, aren't I?"

Hermione stared hard at his book.

"I suppose. But that's talking about some angel and demon rubbish, not ghosts," she answered.

"No," Ron protested. "It's not rubbish at all. Look!"

Ron leaned over the table, shoving it under their noses and pointing to a grainy, black and white photo that appeared to be someone's back, with two wide stripes of discoloured skin on either side of the spine. The caption read _Fallen Angel_.

"That's ridiculous," Hermione muttered after a long pause, voicing the thought they shared. "That's utterly ridiculous."

Ron nodded and retracted the book. "The book thinks that they were, y'know, angels. They're the yellow-haired guys with wings that muggles hang on Christmas trees, right?"

Hermione affirmed that, yes – sort of – they were the same. Ron seemed chuffed with his knowledge and went back to his book.

Harry gave an enormous sigh an hour later, catching the attention of everyone present.

"Look," he said. "You guys have been trying to figure out a way to get me back for over a year. We've as good as vanished the resurrection stone, I mean, we can't find it, so we might as well make do with what we've got. That book of Ron's… It sounds really silly. But maybe there's something in it?"

Harry stared at them all earnestly, with his odd, silvery green eyes.

"Maybe," Hermione conceded.

The book, as it turned out, told them nothing. There was only a bit of unfounded speculation as to what the scars, which had supposedly appeared spontaneously, were.

The research, as usual, was left to Hermione. She managed to identify the image as one credited to photographer Sam Neil, who was still living over in America.

The whole thing was ridiculous, they knew that, but at the same time it had been so long since they'd done anything, well, ridiculous. For the first time since the final battle, Ginny, Ron, Hermione and Harry were going on an adventure.

x.x

"Here's number eighteen!" Ginny called from where she was bent in front of a letter box, trying to discern the faded numbers. "They sure don't care much for upkeep, do they?"

It was true. The entire street would look like something out of ghost town if it weren't for that subtle presence of life the place rang with. Ron led the way as they dawdled up the path and knocked on the door.

"Mr. Neil?" Hemione asked as an old but able-bodied man answered the door. He stared at them, saying nothing. Hermione swallowed awkwardly.

"My name's Hermione, and these are Ron and Ginny. We wanted to ask you about a photo of yours that appears in this book," she flashed the cover at him, "It's um captioned "Fallen Angel".

The man gave a long sigh of recognition. "I know the one," he told them. "Well, don't be shy, come on in kids."

The trio and Harry followed behind him, into a small but neat kitchen area. It was mint green and the laminate was peeling, but it seemed well-used. Mr. Neil walked over to a steaming mug on the benchtop, and plucked the teabag from it.

"Well, wha'd'ya want to know, and why'd'ya want to know it?"

"It's an odd thing," Ginny replied. "See, our friend, recently deceased, he had that same scar appear on his back."

The old man gave a slow nod. "You're all Brits. Pretty far from home, ain't ya? This kid's name's Potter, by any chance?"

Startled, they nodded.

"Ah," he man growled. "He was a funny sort, that guy Potter. Came over from England, stayed a few years, and was off again. He was older 'n me by a fair whack. I was giving the school newletter a story, and he had one. Said it was hereditary, that scar. A gift from History."

He stared into his cup.

"The whole thing about the angels was all me though. It got top marks. People loved the article. You're the second lot to ask me about him this week. Others claimed to be supernatural investigators, though." He shook his head. "I sure know how to attract 'em crazies."

x.x

The plot that went along with this was rather complicated, but I've forgotten it unfortunately. Harry's turned into some vaguely angel-oid supernatural critter and is potentially under threat from Dean and Sam. I haven't got /any/ idea where I was going with this :/ I'm rather intrigued myself.

Anyway, if anyone cares, _**I will be taking Origin of Our Kind down and reposting the re-written first chapter here. **_I may or may not take it up again.


	3. Origin Of Our Kind 01

**The Origin Of Our Kind (Rewrite)**

This is the first chapter of my abandoned re-write of Origin of Our Kind.

x.x

Deep in the Department of Mysteries, behind a soundproof door, there sat a sealed box. For centuries, the things inside the box had lain inert. Now, they twitched. The objects began to rattle, thumping against the box's bottom with the deep sounds of wood and the high sounds of chinking china. Then the objects began to dance, thumping against the walls and up to top of the box until it, too, began to shake and rattle against the marble floor on which it had been placed.

The door was warded against many things, and sound was one of them, so no-one came to investigate the phenomenon. The objects crashed into each other in a frenzy, bouncing off each other and banging into the walls of the box, but did not break. The box crept across the floor with their vibrations until it banged against the door.

The door held firm and did not shake. It was well-warded.

The objects began to settle. The jug with the sunset mosaic stopped first, the lid falling neatly into place. Then the twisted, U-shaped piece of wood clattered next to it. Finally, the arrow with the fish-bone head stopped moving.

It would be weeks before anyone noticed.

x.x

_Dear Mr. Harry Potter,_

_The Ministry of Magic requests your assistance in a matter of utmost urgency. Please make yourself known to the secretary of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at Ten AM_ _tomorrow. The Auror Testing Squad has already been informed of your absence and will not expect you._

_Kathleen Gingerwalk,_

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_Ministry of Magic_

x.x

"Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office and Apparation Test Center."

The chains gave an extra rattle as the lift jerked to a stop. Harry watched as the memos darted around the ceiling light like moths, dimming and brightening the lift as they covered the light. Some parted from the light to zoom away through the golden grille which was just now opening. They were replaced by a few more, which swirled in circles, turning pale purple as the light shone through them.

People got on, and pain exploded in Harry's toe. He swore. Winching, he jerked his foot up and curled it around his leg. The Wizard who'd stood on it craned his head around and grimaced in wordless apology. Harry gave him a scowl.

Today wasn't Harry's day. He was supposed to be in his Auror exam right now, but DMLE had decided they needed him in the secretary's office instead. Now this man had stepped on his toe and was staring at his forehead. Harry intensified his scowl, and the man sniffed and turned purposefully away.

Harry huffed, carefully returning his injured foot to the ground.

"Harry?"

It was Hermione, squeezing between two extremely tall witches who were having a conversation of their own above her head. Her hair was straight and shiny, falling behind her shoulders in a rich waterfall. Her face was makeup-smooth and her lips had been lipsticked red. Annoyance was disappearing from her face.

"Hermione! Aren't you supposed to be on holidays?" Harry asked in astonishment.

"Yes, but it seems DMLE's finally getting back to me about my transferral, and it seems they've accepted me into the Aurors, so I'm not complaining," Hermione smiled wryly.

Harry grinned. "That's great! We'll catch you up in no time. I'm on my way to DMLE too."

"You can show me the way then." Hermione answered.

""Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters and Wizengamot Administration Services."

Harry and Hermione squeezed through the crowded lift until they popped out into the corridor. It was raining lightly inside the enchanted windows, and sun sparkled off the drops the clung the glass. The doors were a dark stained wood and dome-topped, with little plaques that indicated sub-divisions and individual offices. Harry led Hermione down the corridor and through one marked _Secretary Magical Law Enforement_ at eye-height, and below that, there was a removable placard that read _Thomas Bockleby_.

The office was dustless, with shiny yellow floorboards and a U-shaped counter, behind which was another door. Wizards and witches sat along the bench that lined the walls. There was no-one behind the counter.

"Well." Said Harry after a slight pause. "I suppose we should sit down."

The witch nearest them gave them a baleful look and shuffled over. There was enough room for Harry to squish between Hermione and the witch.

The door beyond the counter opened, and in bustled Thomas Bockleby, a white, broad, thickly-muscled man with short hair and a thick moustache. He glanced up, his eyes meeting Harry's immediately.

Harry gestured to the other people sitting slumped and impatient along the bench, but the man didn't seem to notice.

"Harry Potter and Hermione Granger?" he asked. "Come with me. The Head wants to see you."

_The Head? _Harry shared a look of confusion with Hermione, but quickly followed Bockleby as he opened the gate in the counter and whisked them away down the corridor.

"The Head?" Harry hissed to Hermione.

"I've got no idea." Hermione answered. "I should have known it would be something like this. 'Situation of utmost urgency'? it isn't going to be a department transfer, that's for sure."

"That's the same reason they gave me," said Harry.

They were slowing down, getting closer to the Head's office. And there it was. _Department Head_ the plaque read, and beneath that, _Kathleen Gingerwalk._

Bockleby knocked on the door. Harry tried to swallow his nervousness. Three swallows later, he wasn't feeling any better.

Voices rose behind the door, but no-one came to answer. Bockleby knocked harder and with more impatience. The voices quietened. The Secretary hissed between his teeth and leaned forward to speak into the crack by the doorknob.

"Open the door. I've Potter and Granger with me."

"Potter and _Granger?_" asked a drawling voice from inside the door. The knob twisted, and the door opened to reveal none other than Draco Malfoy.

For a heart-stopping moment, Harry thought that Madame Gingerwalk had retired and made Malfoy her replacement. He stared, stupefied by Malfoy's presence. Then, someone nice and familiar came up behind Draco. Someone with red hair and persistent freckles, and the moment was gone.

"Ron?" Harry greeted, and Ron waved them in grimly. "I haven't seen you in ages!"

"Been busy," Ron shrugged, and glanced conspiratorially over at Hermione. "Anyway, we're still waiting for Madame Gingerwalk to turn up, Bockleby," Ron talked past him. "We haven't set the place alight yet."

"Keep it that way," Bockleby grunted, and sped back down the corridor so fast that it seemed all of his considerable strength was used in the endeavour.

"What are _you _doing here?" Harry accused the moment the secretary disappeared. Draco leaned against the Department Head's desk and raised a nonchalant eyebrow.

"_I_ don't know. I _am_ the only person in this room who is a functioning Auror. Maybe they've decided that the Golden Trio needs a little more… talent."

"Talent!" Harry hissed. "We don't need you. We're _perfectly_ fine without your help!"

Malfoy became absorbed in his cuticles, and smiled. "Right. Says the person who doesn't yet have an apparition licence."

Harry was shocked into silence. Because, yes, he hadn't, but he'd always been so busy and the floo network worked perfectly well. It wasn't like he _needed _to apparate.

"Just shut up, Malfoy!" Ron snapped, stepping up beside Harry. Hermione didn't say anything, but she crossed her arms and glared. "How long have you been apparating, then?" Ron asked. "Bet it's since you were fourteen. It's common knowledge _Malfoys_ don't care much for the law."

"Ah," sighed Malfoy, unruffled. He let his hands fall to the desk. "These days it's Potter that has his… goons do with bullying for him."

"Why are you even here, anyway?" Harry asked pointedly.

Malfoy looked at them all and opened his mouth.

"_What_ is going on here?" a strong feminine voice interrupted.

Ron jumped back, Hermione turned around, and Harry found an innocuous spot on the wall to inspect. Draco smoothed down his robes.

"Look at me!" the voice demanded, and Harry's eyes slid over against their will, catching those of the Department Head.

Madame Gingerwalk was furious. Her pale orange hair was frizzy with rage, and her claw-like nails clutched spasmodically around her cane, under the duck-head top as though she was strangling its neck. She strode into the room, sat behind her desk, and gave them all an inspection that pierced their souls.

She left them hanging. Harry felt strung-out, like pig intestines drying in the sun, as his mind was flayed by her gaze. A moment longer, and the feeling stopped as quickly as a flipped a switch. She nodded meaningfully, put her cane down, and picked up her pen.

"Sit down."

Harry turned to sit in the chair to his right, but Malfoy was already sitting in it. Hermione was sitting in the one to his left. He had to cross the room to the free chair beside Malfoy, exposing himself to Madame Gingerwalk's steely stare all the way. He sank into the uncomfortable cane chair and resisted the urge to cross his legs.

"The occasion for which we are gathered here is of utmost importance." Madame Gingerwalk began. "If you are going to create another scene like the one I walked in on, you may leave right this moment."

She paused, and silence stiffened around them. No-one answered or moved.

"Well, I see we are in accord about that, at least. Now, let us get down to business. I am your boss, Kathleen Gingerwalk – yes, yours too of an hour ago, Ms. Granger – and I took over this department from Madame Bones. Certain circumstances have come to our attention, and I believe you four are the best equipped to deal with them. Harry, Ron, Hermione—"

Harry sat up straighter.

"—you three were successful in locating and destroying Voldemort's horcruxes. Draco, you top your class in all areas, including assimilation with Muggles. You will make a spectacular guard for our experts."

Harry's eyes slid away from Madame Gingerwalk, and over to Malfoy. He had his head tilted up, fairly preening at the compliment. Harry eyed him with disgust. Where did he get off on the idea that Harry couldn't defend himself?

"It is better, Harry Potter, to be safe than sorry!" Madame Gingerwalk snapped. Harry gulped and startled back to see her steely blue eyes boring into him. He nodded quickly.

"Good." Harry didn't fail to see the satisfied smirk on Draco's face.

"I trust that teamwork will not be an issue here," Madame Gingerwalk commanded. "And as it will not be, let us get down to business."

She leaned over to the side of her chair, and brought a box onto the table. She drew three objects from it, passing them over to Harry, Ron, and Draco, then leaned back and indicated that they should study them.

There was a foot-long arrow. The arrowhead was fish-shaped, white and discoloured like bone. Someone had carved eyes into it and detailed little lines along its body and fins. The fletching was wooden too. The feathers looked thin and brittle like bark chips, but when Harry touched them they were sturdy.

There was jug, a small, spheroid thing that fit in the palm of his hand. Little orange and yellow tiles decorated it in a mosaic depicting a sun half-hidden below the horizon.

The last was a curious piece of wood. It was twisted and pale, and flecked with little black holes. The wood was bent in a U-shape, like a horse shoe.

Draco and Ron stared at it.

"Bloody hell!" Ron cried. "That's the plague-bringer stick of the American legend, isn't it?"

"The plague-bringer stick?" Harry asked.

He was bewildered, and it must have shown on his face because Hermione rolled her eyes. She caught Madame Gingerwalk's eyes and the Department Head nodded.

"It's the legend of the North-American Colonists, Harry. The story goes that around sixteen-hundred some families went over there, taking with them a piece of wood renowned for its luck-giving powers in the hope it would bring them success. It was like solid Felix Felicis. A year later, all communication ceased, and nothing would ever be heard of them again. A hundred years later, more explorers went looking for their remains. Only half of them came back, and the ones that did were half-dead. They had that piece of wood with them, and called the Americas the Cursed World with their dying breaths. It is so cursed, it is said, that it drained the stick's luck-giving power and cursed it. Since then, the stick has given only bad luck as has been known as the plague-bringer. As for the Cursed World, only small parties have gone over, and they have never stayed very long."

"It's all truth," Madame Gingerwalk added. "However, the tale omits the other objects, which were brought back with the plague-bringer. We have recently determined that the reason the objects appeared cursed is that they were horcruxes. Now that they are empty, they should be harmless."

"_Horcruxes!" _Harry howled. Okay, so it sort of made sense. That was why he, Hermione and Ron were here, but _horcruxes? _Really? Even the world made his scar tingle it seemed to try to wriggle away from the idea.

"They _should_ be, Madame Gingerwalk?" Hermione asked with amazing calm. The Department Head didn't reply. Harry shivered.

Madame Gingerwalk continued. "Ever since it was discovered that these objects were horcruxes, new questions have arisen as to the fates of the Colonists. It is generally agreed that they created the horcruxes. Some have argued that they did it in defence against the wilds of America. Some argue that they did it the moment they were freed from our laws. We don't know."

"You want us to go the Cursed World," Ron spluttered. "That's insane! Look, me and Hermione—"

"Shoosh, Ron," Hermione snapped.

"Yeah. Right. Sorry." Ron coughed awkwardly, and the heavy mood resettled.

"The fact remains," Madame Gingerwalk continued, "that we need to know what happened to those settlers. The disappearance of the souls in those horcruxes cannot be a good thing."

"Why not?" Harry grumbled. "Maybe it means they've got their morals back."

Madame Gingerwalk held her palm outward in a 'stop' sign.

"Mr. Potter, I am beginning to tire of being interrupted. It is not a good thing because the souls disappeared at the same time. Three souls, from three different people. This indicates that the Colonists are functioning and in contact with each other. _All_ the colonists: we cannot assume that only three colonists created horcruxes, or that their horcruxes, too, were destroyed. We have discovered that the objects still resonate with the bodies of the souls they were once a part of and have isolated their location, which remains in North America. We have special permission for you to use a flying carpet to get to your destination, and we have portkeys that will bring you back here. You must owl us with your progress at least once a week."

She smiled. Horror dawned over Harry. Ron's shoe squeaked against the floor.

"What! That's too fast!" Harry exclaimed. "We haven't agreed to anything!"

"And… our jobs!" Ron spluttered.

"I am your Department Head, Mister Weasley," Madame Gingerwalk answered. "All four of you have been suspended for a minimum of eight months. You may be able to resume work after that."

"You _can't_ do that!"

"That's an awful manipulation," Hermione snapped.

"By your reactions, it seems quite effective," Madame Gingerwalk answered. She gave them all a mild smile. "You will collect your carpet from the Department of Magical Transportation in ten minutes. They will also have the muggle money we've procured for you."

A small paper aeroplane zipped through the crack under the door and into Madame Gingerwalk's hands. She unfolded it and nodded to herself.

"I am required elsewhere," she told them. "I trust you to let yourselves out." And with that, she left them.

"I can't believe her!" Harry hissed when she was out of sight. His friends nodded unhappily. Draco just leaned back in his chair, stroking the armrests and smiling lazily. He didn't look bothered at all. Harry stormed over to him.

"And why do we need you?"

Draco sat up. "Contain yourself, Mr. Potter," he drawled. "Unless I have become deaf, I believe I heard her say that I am to be your bodyguard."

"We don't need a bodyguard."

"Well, your boss says otherwise," Draco answered. He got to his feet and slid out the door as well.

"I'm sorry guys," Harry sighed to Ron and Hermione.

"We'll just have to delay it," Ron answered sadly. "Maybe we can plan the some of the wedding while we're there. That way Mum doesn't take over everything."

"She'll find a way to do it anyway," Hermione said. Her voice was acerbic, and she led the way from the office.


	4. The Game

**The Game**

This was written because it was fun to write. There was a funny sort of enjoyment in completely abandoning all my fears and just splashing my idea all over the page(s). Origin Of Our Kind was a divergent plunny. This is a would-be beginning of the other fork.

x.x

"Dean?" Sam asked urgently.

Dean was frozen mid-chew, the yellow mush of apple pie visible between his lips. His eyes were wide and horrified.

Sam followed his gaze to the dog that was sniffing its way up the footpath.

"A Jack Russel?" he said dumbly.

Dean shook his head, and his face turned grey.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

He coughed, and a little cube of apple fell out of his mouth. Sam looked at him in askance.

"A – big Jack Russel?" he hedged, and cocked his eyebrow inquiringly.

Dean shook his head. He stood, and pulled on Sam's arm. Sam let himself be pulled off the low wall and back to their hotel room.

x.x

"What was that?" he demanded as the entered.

Dean whirled on him, grabbing the single hotel chair in both hands. "That dog," he said. "Sam. That dog was a hellhound!"

Sam looked at him open-mouthed and gave a grunt of disbelief.

Dean remained serious, and leant over the chair.

"Did you see its tail?"

"No," answered Sam. "I was too busy looking at you! You looked like shit."

"_Thankyou_, Sam, but its tail was forked!" Dean stood straight and began pacing. "Forked, Sam! Like the tongue of the Deceiver. And don't you start—I know what those hounds look like!"

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "I just didn't expect the hounds of hell to like Grandad's lap dog."

"Well they do."

Dean collapsed onto the couch.

"The question, is what we're going to do about it. Some poor shmuck has got himself a deal, and we need to help him."

"Dean – are you sure…" Sam began.

"Do you expect me to forget something like that?" Dean snapped.

Sam held his hand up. "Listen to me, okay? I could see that dog, and so could you. Neither of have deals coming due. It could have been just a mutant dog."

"When is it just a mutant dog?"

x.x

Meanwhile, Harry Potter sneaked behind the hotel on four feet, and changed back into human form. For a moment, he wished to complain about his animagus form – how did he manage to get such a distinctive a form as a _crup_ – but then the thoughts fled him mind and he shook his head.

Why the hell did Draco Malfoy of all people want to visit him here of all places?

x.x

"Ah, you're here Potter," Draco said with a grin from the open doorway.

Harry gripped the doorknob and thought about slamming the door in his face. "Yes, Draco," he snarled, "What do you want?"

Draco gave him a measured look. "I'm here to return something which your Godfather left to you. Of course, if you don't want it, I needn't give it to you."

Harry narrowed his eyes. He'd seen enough of the Black Family Tree tapestry to know that if Draco had anything that was his by right, then the git had a heavy claim on it shouldn't want to part with it.

He was curious, however, and as Draco stood at his door and smiled, it got the better of him.

"What is it?" he asked.

Draco looked up at the doorframe above him. "Well, I would rather tell you inside. It is somewhat cold and dark out here."

Harry gritted his teeth. "Fine," he snapped, and gestured for Draco to come in.

x.x

Harry sat back against the headboard and watched Draco stroll around the room in front of him.

"Here's the thing. There's a game. A great game. A game we all play with our lives. Orion Black had a game piece, but he couldn't pass it to his daughters, only to his son. His son didn't know about it, of course. He was never told. He was too unpredictable.

"But you, Potter, you're predictable. So I know what your answer will be. So tell me, do you want to play the game?"

Harry growled. "You said you played with lives," he said.

Draco grinned. "I did! But I you can't help unless you know the rules. And you can't know the rules unless you play."

"Then I'll play," Harry said, eyeing Draco dubiously.

"Great!" Draco grinned, and held up three fingers. "Here's the facts. You are in the Game. The first rule of the Game is that you can't win. The second rule of the Game is that you can't break even. The third rule of the Game is that you can't quit."

A feral smirk came over Draco's face. "Of course, you can try!"

Harry felt like he'd made a very big mistake. "I… don't understand."

"I wouldn't expect you to!" Draco said, "but I can't explain. Just… trust me when I say you will soon. I'll be in room eighteen if you need me."

He started to go, but then turned back.

"Oh! And if anyone asks – and they shouldn't – your name is Harry Black."


End file.
